What I am about to type is lame and really embarrassing. As a little girl I vividly recall watching an episode of "Good Times" wherein J.J. and the gang were headed for financial ruin . . . . they needed money for something very badly. The landlord was awarding money (just the amount they needed, of course) for the cleanest apartment in their building. Inspectors came by with white gloves and all. Not surprisingly, Florida won. She had the cleanest apartment in the entire building. She saved the day. Good times, indeed.
I remember watching that episode and thinking, "She got paid for keeping her apartment clean? But, cleaning is fun". Yes, my disorder started early in life. Anyone who has seen me clean can tell you, I am a woman on a mission with laser-sharp focus. It occurred to me a few months ago that I recall that episode every time I clean. As if someone is going to stop by with white gloves and give me a ribbon and some cash. I told you it was lame.
Mix my clear recollection of '80's sitcoms with a loathing of germs and a touch (okay, maybe more than a touch) of OCD and thereyouhaveit: an extremist housekeeper. That's at least the surface of my issues. There are deeper layers, but those are for me and a therapist to hash out.
A couple of posts ago, I wrote about my hope that the cleaning service I hired would actually meet my fanatical housekeeping needs. I had been getting their fliers in the mail for months; they were genius. They said "Life is too short to clean your own home". Damn right.
Don sent his superhero-like team of two in this morning. At least to me they were like superheroes. He said they would be here "around 8:20". At exactly 8:20, my doorbell rang. They were friendly and uniformed and they immediately got to work.
I am ashamed to admit, they did things I probably would have overlooked had I been cleaning a house for the first time. They folded the end of my toilet paper in to a triangle. They left hand towels neatly folded and hung in the bathrooms. Lord knows my teenager's room hasn't been this clean since I cleaned it a few months ago, which is something I normally refuse to do. They even cleaned the little grate-thingy that sits in the bottom of the in-door ice dispenser on my fridge. Oh, these two were good. Very good. They wiped, scrubbed, vacuumed and mopped their way out the front door with precise efficiency.
As promised, Don stopped by to inspect and make sure I was happy. Oh boy, was I happy . . . . I heard angels singing, the heavens opened up, mountains crumbled, trumpets blared, the seas roared . . . . okay, so maybenot. But it did seem nothing short of divine. I am convinced the sun was shining a little brighter on our house when they left. Every room in my house was clean at the same time. And I didn't have to work like a dog to get it that way.
I was left a gift (they gave me a gift? Seeing as how I could have kissed them both, I was taken aback by this), as well as a list of what got done today and what will be done next time. Thaaaaat's right. There will be a next time.
DYN-O-MITE!
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